Chapter Text
Five years earlier
He catches Arthur’s eye across the room, watching while Leon gives him a push forwards, drink sloshing out onto Merlin’s shoes as he closes the distance.
He’s rosy cheeked, with a light sheen of sweat. He’s gorgeous.
Merlin wants to kiss him.
Two years earlier
“Colours.” Merlin pets at Arthur’s hair. The colours are so good , though. “Gold, and blue, and your lips are so pink.”
“I can’t understand you, you’re bleeding,” Arthur says, amused, and Merlin swats a hand away from his mouth. “Let me see, the dentist said - ”
“Where did you get your… feet mittens?” Merlin demands, closing his eyes and pushing his head into Arthur’s chest like a cat. He’s tired, and Arthur smells so nice. He always does, ever since ages ago in uni.
“My socks?” Arthur asks.
“No,” Merlin whines, as the telly switches to the ad about ducks. “This one always makes me cry,” he sniffs.
“Alright,” Arthur laughs, “settle down, come on.”
Two months earlier
“I understand,” Merlin says, “of course I do. We’ve all been there - don’t worry about it right now, just try and keep your head up, alright?” He offers an awkward kind of smile. He knows it is; he can feel it.
He wishes Mordred wasn’t doing this, but it isn’t his fault his mum is ill. It’s good he wants to take care of her. Merlin will make it work, he always does.
“Thanks, Merlin,” Mordred says, head down and embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, I promise. Strictly one time only,” he laughs.
Two days earlier
It is not one time only.
Today
It is not the worst day Merlin has ever had, but it is in the top five. Possibly three.
There would be absolutely no making rent this month.
Of all the impossible hurdles that face Merlin lately, this is perhaps the most impossible of all. His bookshop job with Gaius is great in the sense that he hardly ever has to talk to anyone and there is plenty of time to catch up on his freelance work, but not so great in the sense of earning potential.
Or direction in life.
But the more immediate concern remains the rent.
The past two months had eaten up his meagre savings - he should have tossed Mordred out the first time he couldn’t pay his half. Unfortunately Merlin had not been so heartless as that; a pushover, always. All for nothing now, as Mordred is gone regardless.
Along with the ancient television, the battered collection of board games, the pile of dusty dvds that had been left here from the last renter (who had been eighty, with bad taste), all of Merlin’s clean laundry (fresh in a basket from that morning’s trip to the launderette), and the entire couch.
The laundry had been on the couch, so possibly it was just a victim of circumstance. Who stole laundry?
Well, most of that wasn’t a huge loss - nor will Mordred himself be missed, if you got right down to it. The clothes though, that one cut deep. Public nudity was frowned on, and it was a cold start to spring. At least with the telly the screen had been more broken than not - and the couch had hurt to sit on if you so much as looked at it for too long. Clear across the room, one was not safe from the aura of discomfort. It had that rough and dated floral fabric that had always led him to think it had been older than him, and maybe his mother, too. The things it must have seen.
Even so, walking into their dingy little flat to an empty living room and no word - not even a note - had been… a feeling.
He’s not sure what the feeling had been , but there had sure been a lot of it.
What was it called when one felt a dead even split of relief, horror, and resignation?
On the bright side, it would be less for him to carry back home to Ealdor when he crawled home in utter shame and defeat, unable to hack it in London on his own. Silver linings.
How many bad roommates could a person have in one streak?
First ‘What’s a smoke detector’ Edwin, then ‘What’s yours is mine’ Julius, then ‘Call me Cen’ Creepy Cenred, and now Mordred.
Arthur would come up with a suitably derogatory nickname, Merlin was certain. He’d just have to tell Arthur first, is all. Which is not a conversation he is particularly eager to have.
The vaguely brownish carpet was probably not a healthy environment for him, or indeed anyone. Yet there was no couch at all anymore, not even a terrible one; so on the carpet he lay, among the crisp dust and the dents in the fibres that were pressed flat over the years. Where he belongs, he thinks dramatically. The water stain on the ceiling stares at him accusingly. He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose for a count of ten, and then inhales and does it twice more for good measure. He swears he read somewhere that this is supposed to calm you down, but it isn’t working very well.
Mostly he can just smell the smell . The old-flat smell; stale and poorly ventilated.
On his stomach his phone vibrates, but he can’t stand to look just yet. He somehow doubts it’s a suddenly guilty Mordred sending him all the missing rent in one go. This day does not strike him as quite that lucky.
What a mess.
A rotten sort of hopelessness takes root up the back of his throat like vines.
What a terrible fucking day. Even though it’s been years since Will died, Merlin misses him so urgently that his nose stings as he holds back tears. It should have been him and Will in a terrible flat together, struggling to make ends meet. Not Merlin and a series of increasingly awful strangers leaving him in the dirt.
All the exciting dreams and grand plans they had made as children, spinning out into nothing. There was so much they were going to do . Instead, Merlin had stumbled straight out the gate, and hadn’t stopped tripping over his own feet ever since.
His phone buzzes again, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees dizzying spots.
“What?” he asks the empty flat, but the only thing he hears back is the neighbour watching Love Island while they clatter about in their kitchen. Again. The bare light bulb hanging above him flickers. Maybe he’ll get murdered and none of this will be a problem anymore. He presumes ghosts have their own, different, problems; but he’s open to considering it.
As if summoned, a knock raps at the door.
“What fresh hell?” he begs of the water stain, but it doesn’t reply either.
He creeps up to the door on tiptoes - you could hear everything in this building. Through the peephole, he saw it was only a fidgeting Arthur, uncomfortable and out of place as always in Merlin’s shitty, run-down flat.
“If you’re here to murder me, it’s too late, I’m already dead,” Merlin says, thudding his head on the door.
“Mer- lin,” comes Arthur’s exasperated voice, “let me in, I have takeaway. Didn’t you get my texts?”
Merlin thuds his head against the door again, but still unlatches the door chain and the lock, standing aside and bracing himself. Arthur is immaculate as always, of course, in a pressed suit that somehow still looks fresh even after a day Merlin knows for a fact started at five in the morning with a run. All sharp, precise angles, broad shoulders, and trim waist. It's remarkable, really. The slightest hint of subtle cologne follows him in, the same as always.
Merlin relaxes at the familiarity despite himself, surrendering to the Pavlovian response.
“Where’s your couch gone?” Arthur asks, setting the takeaway on the little bar counter and refusing to take off his shoes, as usual. He would never dare sully his socks with the floor, not here. “And your television?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin says, digging into the cupboards to hopefully still find a pair of mismatched plates, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. Ah, success! At least Mordred hadn’t cleaned out everything. He probably just didn’t even know they had plates to steal; it’s not like he had ever cooked. The empty spot where the instant pot had lived speaks otherwise, but Merlin is excellent at denial.
Also, his mother had given him that as a housewarming present. Mordred really is the worst.
“Again?” Arthur scoffs as he unloads the unmarked bag. “Another Julius? You have the worst luck of anyone I know. How do you do it?”
“Oh, you know, hard work and persistence,” Merlin snorts, watching as a plethora of little brown boxes and bamboo utensils spread across the flecked laminate counter. They smell divine, and he shudders to think of the cost when he’s set to be out on his huge ears at the end of the month.
They’ve done this song and dance countless times before; if he asks where they are from, Arthur will refuse to tell, knowing Merlin will look up the menu to go into palpitations over the prices. Arthur will insist that good food is worth it, and if he’s paying, he can get them what he likes. Merlin will fail to choke down an overly snippy reply, and Arthur will list all of the ethically sourced local ingredients and charities the restaurant supports, just to rub his face in it.
The place with the rooftop garden and the beehives had been inspired, and shut Merlin up for an entire month. It’s bloody expensive to be a good person.
Today, though, he just leans against the counter, his stomach rumbling. Breakfast was ages ago and he’s had to skip lunch again; and as much as he likes oatmeal it’s been days since he had something else. He’s sick of it. And with no instant pot now he won’t even have that, so he might as well eat something good before he leaves London.
At the thought, his appetite abandons him.
Arthur pushes a plate full of something that smells amazing into his hands.
“What? No fussing over dinner? You love fussing, it’s your favourite thing to do,” Arthur says, casting his eyes judgmentally over the nearly empty living room. “And you hated that couch, I can’t imagine you’re too stricken over the loss.”
“Mordred is gone,” Merlin admits, picking at a bit of pomegranate that glistens and gleams in the light like a ruby. Out of place, here.
“Good,” Arthur brightens up. “I hated him almost as much as the couch. More, maybe. He was always taking advantage of you.”
“No,” Merlin says, “it’s not good!”
“He was always taking advantage,” Arthur insists, poking his fork at Merlin in a jab. “You were forever complaining he stole your groceries, and he hasn’t paid rent, and he never cleaned!”
“He smoked in his room,” Merlin complains, happy for a receptive audience - and no one likes complaining as much as Arthur. “He never did laundry. He stole my laundry, did I tell you that? Who steals a man’s laundry? I ask you!” He gestures so grandly that he drops his fork. “The sketchiest people came over. Remember Kara? With the ‘oh my god, is that a real knife’-knife?
“It was a real knife.” Arthur’s nostrils flare.
“I know it was! And he took the longest showers. I never had enough hot water, and you know how cold I get.” Arguably the largest crime of all. Merlin froze all winter.
“So cold.” Arthur scowls as he nods, and they are united in their shared hatred.
“But still not good.” Merlin reclaims his train of thought. “I can’t… I mean, I can’t afford this place on my own. And they don’t really make places much cheaper than this.” He finally shoves a bite of food in his mouth. It’s delicious. “What is this?”
“Don’t change the subject. What do you mean?” Arthur sets his plate down on the ugly counter, a dreadfully serious expression falling over his face. A siren starts wailing outside.
“I’ll have to move home, that’s what I mean.” Merlin stabs his stupid delicious salad. There’s purple sprouted broccoli in it, and he sniffles. They have broccoli in Ealdor, but he’ll miss London. His friends. He’ll miss Arthur.
“No, that’s - ”
“I can’t magic up more money, Arthur!” Merlin wipes the back of his hand under his nose. Arthur shoves an actual handkerchief at him, and he takes it. “You’re eighty,” he says, grateful at least no tears fall. “Who carries a handkerchief?”
“You’ll find another roommate,” Arthur says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t think it’s going to matter,” Merlin says, folding the handkerchief into a tiny square and unfolding it again as he squirms. “I’m already behind, and the rent’s going up, not down. Gaius is going to retire to the coast like a heroine in a Victorian novel in a few weeks anyway, so I won’t have a job on top of everything else. And - ”
“You’ll get more freelance work and move in with Gwaine, then,” Arthur says, staring determinedly into his plate as though it keeps the answer to this secret hidden somehow. Merlin winces. He doesn’t want to think about freelance right now, its own headache.
“And Elena? And their horse of a dog?”
“You love Ivan,” Arthur argues, his hands white-knuckled.
“I do, but they don’t have any space, even if I did feel comfortable asking! They’re getting married in three months.”
“Lance and Gwen - ”
“Absolutely not, you know they’re applying to foster, I’m not going to take that room - ”
“Then move in with me,” Arthur grits out, finally snapping his head up to look at Merlin again. His throat bobs.
“Into the guilt-house?” Merlin laughs wetly. Arthur’s gorgeous detached home is a pristine monument to Uther’s guilt - but it is a very beautiful one. The fallout of his long-ago affair had all but shattered their family, but at least the house Arthur had been given afterwards is lovely.
“We lived together before and we both survived, didn’t we?” Arthur doesn’t take the bait.
“Barely,” Merlin answers, picturing their uni days. The first taste of living with anyone other than his mother or sleepovers with Will. It all made for strange, dreamlike memories, for all that it has only been a few years past.
He feels like a very old twenty five most times. He shouldn’t be this age and so tired.
Even in the thick of it, Merlin was never quite clear if he loved or hated living with Arthur. It still isn't, now. The most draw-able person Merlin had ever seen, colourful and funny with bouts of reckless kindness - but also the most spoiled prat who had ever lived. Compared to his recent luck with roommates, Arthur was a walk in the park, though. Who cares if he’s posh? At least he smells good and doesn’t steal couches.
That Merlin knows of, anyway.
Regardless, he is not sure it’s the best idea. The entire first year of uni Arthur had been saved in Merlin’s phone as ‘Posh Spice’. Mature? Culturally relevant? Perhaps not. Is he currently saved in Merlin’s phone as ‘The Cooler Posh Spice’?
Perhaps yes.
“It’s not like I pay rent, and it’s far too big for one person anyway.” Arthur begins poking at his salad again, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Yeah, what do you even do with five bedrooms? Rotate where you sleep? Or is it where you store your… I don’t know, actually. Fabergé eggs?”
“Of course,” Arthur says, mimicking Uther’s accent with a haughty sniff before his mouth cracks into an honest smile. “Be honest with me though, is that the only rich-person thing you could think of?”
“Big cartoon diamonds,” Merlin continues, amused, counting things off on his fingers. “Fur coats. Gold bars? That’s one bedroom for each and the last one for you, I reckon?”
“You could have a studio,” Arthur says, not quite ready to let things go with a joke so easily this time. “I have my bedroom, then one’s my office - ”
“Arthur - ” Merlin bites his lip as Arthur presses on.
“And if you took a room there’s still two more - a studio and I could still keep a guest bedroom for if Morgana ever comes home from her around the world revenge holiday. Or if your mum wants to visit, you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”
“That’s impossible, as I don’t have a couch,” Merlin says, gesturing to the empty space. The carpet is noticeably whiter where the couch had lived, which strikes him as a bad sign in general for the whole flat. He opens his mouth and closes it again, speechless to answer in any real way.
He doesn’t want to leave London, is the thing - it was hardly a glamorous life, but it was his . The art galleries alone made him sigh; in love, in awe. The markets. Even if Merlin couldn’t buy anything, he loved to go people-watch and sketch. The fashion kept a row of moleskines stuffed over-full on his rickety bookshelf.
Ealdor didn’t have a single museum. Old man Simmons’s house was the closest anything came, untouched since ‘the war’. It was never clear which war, but Merlin had always assumed the Norman Conquest. Simmons would just as soon shoot someone before letting them in to have a look at anything, though. A handful of restaurants against a backdrop of old, abandoned factories. So no, Merlin doesn’t want to go back.
Arthur’s offer is generous.
Too generous. He would let Merlin take advantage of him if he moved in. Would encourage it - Arthur liked it when Merlin presumed. Always taking pity on his least successful friend; feeding him and trying to make his life just a little bit easier.
And as much as Merlin dug his heels in about the fancy takeaways he always ate them in the end. He wore the perfect jumper that Arthur got him that had the tags cut out before Merlin could even try it on or refuse it. Wore the boots that he suspected were handmade by elves, as they had no maker's marks at all. And oh no , the perfect jumper must be stolen as well - he’ll miss that jumper like a limb. Shit.
Suffice it to say that Merlin was not very good at saying no to Arthur.
He was very, very bad at saying no to Arthur, in fact.
“I don’t want to be a Sophia, or a Mordred,” Merlin says, feeling selfish for even considering it, swallowing roughly and picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. Of course the shirt with a hole in it wasn’t in the stolen laundry. The last thing he ever wore as he put off going to the launderette until he absolutely couldn’t put it off any longer.
“That’s impossible,” Arthur says, matter-of-fact, “as you don’t smoke.”
“You know what I mean.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“The room is sitting there empty with or without you in it,” Arthur says in that placid way he gets when he’s not going to budge. If he was being rowdy, Merlin could still win the argument; as it stood now, though, he might as well start packing. “I have a washing machine and a dryer, and no clothes thieves,” he lists like a particularly dry estate agent. “Bathtub. Three, actually. I literally cannot use them all. I just can't run that fast. Garden. Just the one of those, though.”
Merlin takes a deep breath again and counts to ten, but it doesn’t work any better than the last time.
The first time he set eyes on Arthur both of them had been lost in the student halls, neither one of them having a clue what they were in for.
Merlin knew, now.
Arthur had been such a condescending shit of a housemate. Merlin had probably been just as bad, rigidly deciding to hate Arthur for life as soon as he saw the monogrammed towel hung up on the railing.
Had Arthur relaxed even once that entire year? Oh, how he had loathed having someone else sharing his space. Merlin could count on one hand the times he had even seen Arthur in pyjamas. And how they fought, butting heads over every little thing.
Arthur was inflexible, and everything had to be just so. Privately, Merlin speculated it was a holdover from his rigid upbringing and army of housekeepers, but he didn’t dare say it.
Had Arthur had a butler growing up? It would explain a lot.
His mother, though? While she had tried her best, she was a free spirit at heart - his name was Merlin, for god’s sake - and he had grown up half-feral and covered in paint.
Arthur is his best and dearest friend - but Arthur has standards.
By Merlin’s level of standards, board game nights at Arthur’s were ludicrously formal affairs. Mostly this just means that people use plates. Gwen tends to wear her nicer dresses, too, though, so he thinks it’s not just him feeling the pressure.
Broke, single-parent kids solidarity.
Regardless of whatever lab grew him, they were very different creatures who had somehow latched on to each other anyway - and not let go - but they were such better friends when they didn’t live together. Merlin couldn’t bear it if things went sour.
He… can’t lose another best friend. The grief from earlier settles back around him like a well-worn coat, snug around his chest and familiar to slip into.
He just can’t.
If he goes back to Ealdor, they’ll never see each other at all, though. An icy dread weaves in between the threads of his stupid grief metaphor coat, stitched tight and oppressive. He can picture it all too easily. Their relationship devolving and deteriorating into the occasional text or call; until one year they just forget each other’s birthdays and feel too awkward to reconnect until someone sends out a wedding invitation or has a baby.
No. Just… no. Arthur has to stay.
“You have to promise me something,” Merlin says, waiting for Arthur to meet his eyes before continuing. He already looks triumphant, but Merlin is deadly serious. “You can’t be like in university.” Arthur makes an insulted sort of noise, and Merlin realises how that came out. “Shit,” he says, and to his relief Arthur just snorts, well used to Merlin sticking his foot in his mouth, “that’s not what I meant. I meant that you never relaxed - literally never!”
“I relaxed!” Arthur swears, sitting there in his buttoned up suit, and vest, and fancy, shiny shoes. Shoulders stiff and set high, jaw squared. If Merlin had any money to bet, he’d wager that on the other side of the counter Arthur’s legs were planted and braced like it was a court date. Or a brawl.
“Did you? Or did you get up extra, extra early so that I never saw you in your embarrassing pyjamas?” Merlin cocks an eyebrow. They both know the truth.
“They weren’t embarrassing,” Arthur denies, but the flush on the tips of his ears betrays him.
“They were embroidered,” Merlin coos, never able to hold onto a bad mood very well around Arthur, “with precious little ‘AP’s.”
“So they wouldn’t get confused with anyone else’s pyjamas!”
“Oh, yes, with all the other university students who had full sets of scarlet silk jammies. It would have been confusing, otherwise. I’m only surprised you didn’t have a velvet dressing gown and a pipe.”
“I have things now,” Arthur says, as Merlin throws his head back to laugh. “Shut up, I didn’t buy those pyjamas! I mean I have age-appropriate things. Jumpers, and t-shirts and joggers - things . I shopped for myself. Well, Lynette did,” he petulantly insists, as grown ups do. Lynette, Merlin knows, is Arthur’s personal shopper, because he is the sort of man to have one. “Not silk - ”
“Jimmy jammies,” Merlin supplies helpfully.
“I relax,” Arthur says through his clenched teeth, and Merlin has never heard another human being sound so tense in all his life. “Is that all sorted then? I just have to promise to relax? Fine, I will then.”
“You never did when we lived together before, so don’t act like it’s so easy.” Merlin vividly recalls the shouting match when Merlin had not adhered to proper lights out time. Well, the first one - it was certainly not the last one.
“I don’t see an issue,” Arthur says, shoving an overly large, messy bite into his mouth as though to make a point, raising his eyebrows in challenge.
“You promise that I won’t change how you live, or unwind, or whatever. I don’t actually think you sleep standing up in a suit, so you can’t act like you do every morning. Especially not Sundays.”
“Who’s to say I don’t sleep in my suits?” Arthur says, still chewing and swallowing properly before speaking. If he ever spoke impolitely with a mouth full of food Merlin would know he had been replaced, though, so that’s fine. He doesn’t want Arthur to change. He only wants Arthur to be himself, and not a tense, miserable person-shaped mass of silk pyjamas. “Who’s to say I sleep at all?”
“We have to stay friends. Or I’m out,” Merlin says, blustering through the complicated tangle of emotions that knot in his chest. “You can’t let me make your life worse.”
“That’s impossible,” Arthur says, tilting his chin up in victory, “as you’ve only ever made my life better.”
“Shut up,” Merlin says smartly, blushing as he takes another bite. Even when Arthur is nice it feels mean. “Eat your dinner. You’ll need your energy to help me pack all of my earthly belongings. I only have a week to sort this all out before someone takes my organs for rent money.”
“Pack what?” Arthur says, but his smile is smug and pleased. “You don’t own anything.”
“My sketchbooks,” Merlin says.
“And?”
“My… sketchbooks,” Merlin says again, because that’s pretty much the entire list at this point. “And art supplies, assuming I still have those. I cannot believe he stole my clothes. What kind of monster - ”
“He’s deranged, clearly,” Arthur sets in, smirking. “All of your clothes are hideous.”
“That is really not the issue,” Merlin fails to stifle his laugh though, and the smirk grows into a real grin. Sparkling blue eyes make Merlin’s chest pull tight. They’ll be fine - they’ve got to be.
The flickering light above them goes out in a shocking burst, because of course it does.
After Merlin screeches and finally stops hyperventilating, they finish eating using Arthur’s phone as a flashlight - Merlin’s is broken, because why wouldn't it be - while the Love Island neighbour bangs on the wall.
It’s not the best day Merlin’s ever had, but it’s also not the worst.